


Hunting Angels

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha/Beta Co-op Mode, LOWAA, M/M, Non-Xeno, Sgrub Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two things that the game compels you to do. The first is to take LOWAA, to slaughter the angels and make those bastards pay- for what, you aren’t sure, but you trust that those serpentine devils are evil, and if the game wants you to make ash of their wings, then you damn well will.  You have you ancestor’s rifle, his fighting spirit, and a thousand angry angels to play with. </p><p>	The second, you find to be much harder than killing overpowered heavenly monsters; that is, you were specifically told by powers far higher than you to look after your alternate universe paradox clone brother slash co-op partner. Said alternate universe paradox space clone brother slash co-op partner is currently knee-deep in a pile of alchemized sunglasses, griping about none of them fitting his look. </p><p>	You get the feeling it’s going to be a long night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [E] A Tryst

**Author's Note:**

> This writing is based off of ten prompts I got. Since I'm doing shorter chapters than I'm used to, I might bump it up to fifteen or twenty depending on how the fic plays out.

A cramp seizes your ankle, but you don’t stop tapping your foot. When Cronus arrives, you want him to be intensely aware of how furious he is making you by having the gall to arrive at your pre-conceived meeting place not ten, not twenty, but a whopping thirty minutes late, while you eye the crumbling archways with a nervous trepidation each time they find themselves blackened by the shadow of an angel above.

            Maybe they got him already. Maybe he’s lying dead after being in the game for all of thirty minutes. You meet that thought with a slight discomfort, not at the notion of Cronus bleeding out on the ground, but at the notion that you would have to go through your land alone, and while you could certainly do it- you do have one of the best rifles that could possibly be alchemized, not to mention being _you_ , but your land has an iciness to it that’s beginning to spread inside you, like frost creeping up your legs in an effort to penetrate your heart and turn you cold from the inside out.

            And there’s an eerie silence that clings to the air that reminds you of the still after a gunshot kill, after the screams ring out and there’s nothing but quiet, but you know, you just know that there is something snaking its way through the particles of air, something like death, or fear. You would start talking to yourself if you knew you wouldn’t be heard, because the empty air is putting a pressure on your throat that you are pretty sure is imaginary, but knowledge doesn’t ease the pressure any less.

            You clear your throat instead, and feign a cough, but as soon as it comes out, you wish you hadn’t, because it echoes through the air like you’re in the deepest cavern imaginable, boomeranging back off of every surface to slam back into your ears and while you aren’t feeling particularly lonely, you feel so, so alone.

            “Got a hairball, kitten?”

            Suddenly the mood lifts, not to one of any specific happiness, but to one of mundaneness; you’ve left the horror movie headspace and gone straight into the shitty teen drama where the air is full of the grating sound of Cronus grinding his toes into the ground, a sound that makes your eye twitch in vexation and your fists curl.

            Plus, the cramp in your ankle reminds you that he’s ridiculously late, he’s dressed in a horribly bland manner that will make it impossible for you to spot him once you start moving, and he’s calling you _kitten_?

            You take your gun out and tuck it under your arm. “If you even think, for one fuckin’ second, that I’m gonna be fine with you treatin’ me with such flagrant disrespect, you are goin’ to find yourself liquefied by my kick-ass rifle.”

            Cronus stares at you dumbly, like he has no fucking clue what he did wrong.

            “We agree to meet at a certain time, you damn well better show up at that time, an’ you don’t fuckin’ call me ‘kitten.’”

            His dumb look melts into a smirk. “Well, well, well, look at what a tough little guy you are.” He sticks out his hand, and you aren’t sure why, so you stare at it, not that he can see through your sunglasses. He edges it forward. “I’m being polite, come on.”

            The hand that’s not on your rifle gets snatched by his, and he puts a crushing hold on it that could have broken every finger if your rings didn’t get to him first, and he forcibly shakes it a couple times, before you jerk away.

            “So,” he mutters, smoothing his shirt and looking dejected for only a brief moment before firing up again with his stupid slack-jaw grin and giving you a nudge with his elbow. “What now, partner?”

            _I blow my fucking head off_ , you think, listening to the word ‘partner’ echo over and over, not empty and hollow like your cough, but lively and full of promise.

           You’d prefer the echo of your cough. 


	2. [C]A War Fanatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be fairly obvious, but POV's will swap every chapter, hence why the chapter titles are prefixed by [C] or [E].

There are no mirrors on LOWAA, you notice, and an hour into your pointless fetch quest, it is starting to drive you insane. Though you try and still Eridan for just a moment to check your reflection in his sunglasses, he rolls his eyes- you can tell even beneath the shades, and you are very certain that he wants you to, and turns away before you can get a glimpse of yourself. The best you can do is to remove your own shades for a moment (which are so close to fitting your look, but goddamn, they aren’t close enough), exposing yourself to the blinding whiteness of the land, and squint at the black shapes of your hair, smoothing down strands with one of the numerous tubes of grease that you packed.

            You’ve been at your quest for a while now, trying to find an alternate entrance to the locked cathedral, while you try to make pleasant and kind conversation that Eridan is not having any part of. It isn’t until you hear a palatable crunch that you notice your stomach starting to gnaw at you, and you packed so much trivial crap in your sylladex assuming you wouldn’t need to bring your own food.

            “Hey chief, you wanna share some of that with your loyal partner?”

            Eridan steps over some rubble, and does a set of motions that you’ve noticed happen in pattern: he turns slightly to the side, slides his feet a bit apart to widen his stance, straightens his back and holds his rifle vertically, like he’s about to shoot at the sky, and his eyes sweep the whole area. He looks a bit like a statue when he does it, a bit like he’s posing after a victory. The granola bar in his hand cheapens it somewhat, and makes you realize that he’s such a fucking dork, but you’re pretty sure you love it.

            “Haven’t seen a single fuckin’ angel yet,” he says, completely ignoring you.

            “No, I’m fucking starving. Gimme some.”

            “Shoulda brought some yourself.”

            You grin and reach for the bar in his hand. He wants to play? You are more than willing. He’s fast, swatting your hand away each time you make a grab for it, and the more agitated he gets, saying, “Fuck off,” the wider your smirk gets, until it’s a full blown smile and you’re laughing. You’re dead serious, however, because you’re totally famished, so you pull the cheapest stunt that will guarantee you a bite- you swoop in to distract him with an unbelievably suave kiss on the lips, and in the moment of paralysis that overtakes Eridan after, you chomp half of the granola bar down in one mouthful.

            He looks so cute when he jumps back, flustered and confused and maybe a little bit disbelieving-yet-excited in a way that is a little sad because you can relate to that, but it only lasts a second before his brows lower and his scowl turns to a snarl and the most audible thing ringing in your ears is the sound of his lungs expanding before he starts screaming at you.

            “You are fuckin’ beggin’ for a hole in your head; I forewarned you about disrespectin’ me an’ I’m not takin’ any a’ your hogshit!”

            His hand twitches over his rifle, and though you know that he’d never shoot you, you don’t _really_ know that he won’t.

            Aside from self-preservation, you’d also rather not have him hate you, because you have quests to complete and you are realistic enough to realize that he’s a far better player than you are, and you’re piss-terrified of the angels even with Eridan and his rifle to cower behind.

            It’s kind of a shame, because you’re working up a good blackrom rapport, but not being slayed by dozens of angry serpentine angels is ever so slightly more important to you than a day of nefarious black snogging. (But by god, he’s got you craving some hot caliginous sex.)

            You swallow the last bits of granola, careful not to show your teeth as you talk, because there’s enough oat crumbs to feed a small village, and you’re trying not to piss him off. “Sorry,” you say. “Just thought we were being chummy, you know? I think it’s all a big misunderstanding.” You put a hand over your heart, “Never again.”

            Eridan scoffs and rolls his eyes, rubble sliding out from under his feet as he walks. He moves like a toy soldier, almost marching but not enough that you can comment, and though you try to talk to him, he’s lost in his own world and you’re feeling even more like a tagalong, despite being older than he is.

            “Dude, look at this,” you say, passing a black gargoyle statue. He doesn’t listen, and keeps walking while you stop to inspect the deliberate indents inside the gargoyle’s open mouth. “Yo, chief.” No response. “Eridan.” Still, no response, and you bite your lip. “Kitten, come here a sec!”

            As you figured he would, Eridan wheels around with his rifle, and instead of pointing it at you in an empty threat, he fires off a shot, hot white lightning damn near burning you to a crisp, but he’s far enough in the distance that you’re able to lunge to the side and keep your limbs intact.

            “What did I say about those fuckin’ pet names?!” he screams, stomping over to you and grabbing your shirt collar. At a full five inches shorter than you, he shouldn’t intimidate you, but he’s got the smoking rifle and the razor sharp teeth that you assume he must have had filed down, and he could certainly kill you if he tried.

            But he’s your dancestor, your partner in this bizzare game, so you’re less scared and more entranced by his scowl, like he’s just begging you to make him smile. “I knew that would get your attention,” you say, and poke his nose with the tip of your thumb. He huffs and pulls back, dropping your shirt and turning his attention to the statue.

            “Looks like we gotta wedge somethin’ in its mouth,” Eridan says, tracing along the indent with his claw.

            “I got something,” you say, holding in a laugh, but he looks up at you in a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

            “What, you found somethin’?”

            You shift your feet in the rubble, looking down at the crotch of your pants. Yeah, your joke is seeming a bit less funny when Eridan is looking at you like you’ve actually done something helpful.

            “Uh, yeah, I mean I found this whole gargoyle, that’s why I called you over, so don’t start thinking you can just take the credit for this.”

            Eridan smashes his knuckles into eyes, massaging in a way that looks almost gory, and heaves a long sigh. “Let’s just… keep lookin’.”

            When he starts walking again, and you stay in place tracing the indent with your hand to try and remember the shape, he yells for you to keep up.

           

            You eventually make it to a series of small tombs with geometric shapes welded to the locked doors, pure black like everything else on the planet. There are two that look sort of like the gargoyle’s indent, and as you slide your hand across the stone shape, some game instructions come up.

 

           **_There can only be one open door._**

****

            “This one,” Eridan states flatly, but you’re certain that he’s wrong, and this is _not_ going to be fun.

            You shake your head. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s this one.”

            “You’re also a fuckin’ idiot, so I’m trustin’ myself.”

            “You hardly even felt it. Come on, I know what I’m doing- tell me, who was it that found the gargoyle in the first place?”

            Eridan crosses his arms, and you continue. “That’s right, it was me. So you just stand back there looking pretty and let your good pal break this door down.”

            A low growl escapes Eridan’s throat, and he shuffles to the side to let you get a running start at the door. You hope you don’t bounce off it like a moron.

            You splat face first into the door, sending it clean off of its hinges, flying across the ground and sliding down a flight of stairs with you riding it like a sled, until the momentum sends you slamming into an altar below. Once your head stops ringing, all you can hear is Eridan howling with laughter.

            “F-fuck,” you hiss, cradling the massive goose egg forming on your head, and fumbling up to snatch the crystal shape. “Don’t worry, chief, I got it,” you groan as you emerge, and Eridan doubles over laughing, burying his face in his hands. He has to take his sunglasses off to wipe away the tears in the corners of his eyes.

            “Fuck you,” you mutter, about to throw the crystal at his fucking face, but he’s smiling through his laughter, almost enough to imply that he is laughing with you rather than at you, and you allow yourself to dust your jeans off and chuckle a bit.

           

            “You’ve got a cute smile,” you tell him once you’re done laughing and on your way back to the statue.

            “That’s narcissistic of you,” he says. “Considerin’ we’re more or less genetic clones.”

            “What, you don’t think I have a cute smile?”

            He doesn’t respond, and through the blanket of his scowl, you get it, but it makes you feel a bit funny in a way that you don’t usually experience. You can’t imagine going through life not thinking you are, put simply, hot shit.

            Except when you do, of course, but those moments are a drop in an ocean, and the periods in which you are in infatuated love with yourself last for so long that you forget that you’ve ever felt any different.

            “I do,” you assure him, patting his back. “I’m outrageously good-looking.”


End file.
